


Spell And Scale

by ProneToRelapse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Dancing, Dragon Hank, Enchantments, Festivals, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Mage Connor, Magic, Overstimulation, Romance, Rough Sex, Shapeshifting, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 23:18:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15851469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProneToRelapse/pseuds/ProneToRelapse
Summary: Connor is commissioned by the King himself to craft a suit of armour stronger than any other. With the chance to earn enough gold to travel the world, Connor accepts and sets off to find the strongest substance known to exist.The scales of a dragon.





	Spell And Scale

**Author's Note:**

> yeah, i don't know either. all i can say is i want dragon hank to throw me through a wall.
> 
> the working title throughout the entire writing process was "dragon dilf hank" and it was very difficult for me to not keep that as the actual title.

Connor is used to all the different kinds of people that cross the threshold of his modest apothecary. Most of them are regulars from the village to the east, collecting their usual poultices and draughts or bartering for a specific kind of elixir that they believe can only be brewed by Connor. They aren’t entirely wrong in that belief; Connor’s enchantments are one of a kind in that they all contain something of his signature flair, but he’s not the only moderately competent alchemist around, even if he may be the most competent enchanter. 

 

Other than the regulars, there are many customers Connor will only see once, either stumbling into his shop desperate for healing, in need of a few supplies for their journey, or otherwise on the market for a specific enchantment to enhance their gear. Those are a little more interesting than poultices for gout or ataxia, but he makes do with what he gets. 

 

Sometimes he’ll receive high-paying contracts from the Capital and those are usually enough to stave off the boredom for a good few weeks. Those are his favourite. Intense, complex projects he can throw all his talent and obscure arcane knowledge into, creating something purely unique from scratch, the fruits of his own labours. Those are the most satisfying commissions and, as it stands, on this rainy midsummer day, Connor receives a contract unlike any other he’s had before. 

 

The courier smiles and thanks Connor graciously as he places a gold coin into his palm and takes the missive, surprised by the weight of the expensive parchment. He carefully cracks the wax seal and unrolls it, spreading it out over the worn wooden counter. It’s... intricately detailed. Connor is mostly used to hastily scrolled requests on folded paper slipped under his door in the night. This has been commissioned by a talented scribe, elegantly calligraphed and painstakingly dictated. 

 

Connor’s eyes flick across the parchment, getting wider and wider as he takes it all in. 

 

 _For the consideration of the learned mage of the Southern Woods,_  

 _A humble request of services from His Majesty King Elijah, Sixth of His Name, Lord of the East and West, Uniter of the seven kingdoms of_ _SiberLief_ _, Last Son of the House of_ _Kamski_ _._  

 

Connor resists the urge to roll his eyes at the pretention of it all. 

 

 _A commission of armour most unique, should the learned enchanter be so gracious as to accept. A full outfit consisting of the following, to be designed and enchanted to His Majesty’s full specifications._  

 _One_ _armet_  

 _One aventail_  

 _One hauberk_  

 _One cuirass_  

 _Two_ _pauldrons_  

 _One chausses_  

 _Two greaves_  

 _Two gauntlets_  

 _For each item delivered perfectly to His Majesty’s direction, a sum of 1500 gold pieces shall be paid to the learned enchanter, O’ high mage of the Southern Woods._  

 _If the task and the sum please the enchanter, please send word with the returning courier. His Majesty eagerly awaits a response._  

 

Connor swallows. It’s a lot of money. Not only that, but the level of enchantment the king wants on the armour is beyond anything Connor has ever attempted before. He scans the sketches included with the missive, grabs a stick of charcoal to scribble notes over the parchment, ignoring the scandalised gasp of the courier he gets in response. If he’s going to do this, and he is most definitely going to do this, he needs the strongest, most potently powerful materials he can find. 

 

He needs dragon scales. 

 

Connor grabs a crumpled scrap of parchment and scribbles his acceptance onto it, a simple note of agreement that’s probably not as worthy for royalty as it should be, but Connor doesn’t care. He thrusts the note into the courier’s waiting hands and politely but firmly ushers him out of the store. For a project this big, Connor needs to prepare, and he needs to prepare  _well._  

 

xXx 

 

For all his experience, Connor would still very much consider himself a novice in the arcane arts. He’s a bright young man who has seen his fair share of wonders and experienced more than many other mages his age, but the subject he studies is so indescribably vast that Connor could spend every day for the rest of his life practicing his craft and still not learn half of what there is to know.  

 

It’s part of the reason he finds it so abjectly fascinating. He’ll never run out of books to read or scrolls to decipher and that thought thrills him, fills him with excitement. He’ll never exhaust the source of spells he can cast or runes he can carve. The only limit is his physical and mental capability, and those both increase the older he gets. His mother used to say magic was in his blood, a part of him rather than a tool to be wielded. Connor treasures those words. 

 

And yet. The vast knowledge of the arcane arts can invariably be daunting. Which it is now, as Connor bends over an old, yellowed map, crystal swinging in quickfire circles on the end of the chain clutched in Connor’s hand. Magic leaves traces in the earth, ripples in the air. The stronger the magic, the stronger the effects and there is no stronger source of magic than that of a dragon.  

 

Connor pours every ounce of his strength onto the crystal, white gypsum, scrying with his mind and soul to latch onto those fleeting pulses of magic left behind by the presence of one of those great creatures. They are not easy to find, even with Connor’s talent for the arcana, though the natural world can sense their presence, Connor can only feel the gentle stirrings of a faint breath channelled through his crystal. 

 

Finally, the gypsum bears sharply to the left, chain slipping from between Connor’s fingers so the point can dig into the map just past the borders of the Western forest. There’s a mountain range there that Connor knows well from his studies. It all ties together that a dragon should choose to roost there, away from the rest of the world. Connor folds the map and stuffs it in his bag, heading through to his storeroom to equip himself suitably. 

 

He spends the whole night enchanting his robes against ice and fire, scrawls shield sigils onto his forearms and breathes charms into his athame. He crafts and imbues until the dawn breaks and his strength wanes and everything is ready for his departure. He packs provisions, a few scrolls, a small bag of coins and then falls face first onto his bed, sleeping the day away until the twilight creeps in. 

 

Better to seek a dragon when no one can see you, thus Connor steals into the night like a phantom, blanketed by shadow and the gentle cover of midnight. 

 

xXx 

 

The journey takes just over a week on foot, with Connor keeping away from the beaten paths and sticking to trails unseen by the ungifted public. He follows the whispers of magic left in the air and the gentle songs of the forest, guided by the instinctual thrum of arcana in his veins. Two crows and a fox join him for a few days of the journey, offering a little company on the otherwise lonely trail, and Connor is glad to have someone to talk to when he stops to rest and shares his food with them cheerfully.  

 

In return the crows bring him pretty little gems, geodes found in high places, and the fox brings a bloody rabbit pelt that Connor is slightly less enthused about, but accepts with a murmured thanks all the same. He can clean it up and make a pouch with it or something, even if the idea of carrying it around for the rest of his trip is slightly distasteful. 

 

His travelling companions eventually disappear as the air gets colder the closer Connor gets to the base of the Western mountains. He clutches a shard of amber tight in his fist, channelling his power through it into warmth to stay the chill of the icy wind, and begins his slow ascent, clutching the hood of his robe tight round his face as he climbs. His magic guides his steps, keeping him secured as he traverses the rocky outcrops to the plateau of the mountainside where the wind doesn't reach, and the air calms once more. 

 

It’s there he rests, flames cupped in his palms to warm his chilled skin, waiting out the night for sunrise before he continues up to the place of power he had scried back at the shop. He can feel the vibrant hum of magic here, feel the tingle on his skin like starlight. The dragon is close by and, even if Connor couldn’t feel the whisper of power in his blood, there are cracked bones, fur and feather scraps littered across the plateau, the remnants of a mighty hunter’s previous feasts. 

 

Connor waits until the sun bleeds over the horizon in a rich flow of pink and gold before he extinguishes the flames in his palms and stands to resume his journey. 

 

xXx 

 

The dragon is the most beautiful creature Connor has ever seen. He’s heard stories, seen countless artworks and etchings but none of them come close to the magnificence of the creature curled up in the hollow of the mountain. Connor has stumbled upon it sleeping, great head the length of Connor’s entire body, scales the colour of polished silver, darkening to grey near the softer hide of its neck. A glittering array of gems coat its stomach but Connor can see no sign of the hoard they must have come from. Its wings are enormous, delicate strips of membrane stretch between the fleshy spines of its fingers. 

 

Connor is utterly awestruck, cannot move for the life of him, completely entranced. 

 

One great ice blue eye slides open, slitted pupil narrowing as the second, vertical eyelid slips back from the iris. It fixes on Connor and the ground underfoot shakes with the force of a low, warning growl. 

 

Immediately Connor drops to one knee, right fist pressed against the ground, left hand twisted over his sternum in a formal gesture of greeting. He lowers his head, eyes fixed on one pale claw the length of his forearm.  

 

“Lord,” Connor breathes, voice steadier than he feels. “I come to barter.” 

 

“You’ve come to disturb my sleep is what,” the dragon snaps, slowly raising its mighty head. The tips of its arching horns scrape against the roof of the cavern with a dissonant screech. “You don’t  _look_  like an idiot, which begs the question of why you’ve thrown all common sense away to wake me.” 

 

“The good Lord already knew of my presence,” Connor says stiffly, still not looking up. The old warning rings in his ears, but he ignores it.  

 

“Fuck off with that,” the dragon grumbles. His voice is rough, layered with age, deep like the echo of an earthquake. The sound of it thrums through Connor’s bones. He’s also remarkably well-learned in human speech. “You came here for a reason, so spit it out before I eat you.” 

 

Connor relaxes slightly, slowly lifting his head so he can look the dragon in its huge, crystal blue eyes. Its nostrils flare as he gives Connor a cursory sniff and the mage takes a deep breath. 

 

“I’ve come to trade for a five pounds of your scales,” Connor says. “In return I can offer knowledge, food, or even rare treasures gathered from far shores.” 

 

“You sound like a court pet,” the dragon sneers. “Did your master send you up here? Realised you can’t kill me, so you tried to strike a bargain?” 

 

“I never had any intention to kill you. Only to trade.” 

 

“Well,” the dragon says, the tip of its tail twitching ever so slightly, “no deal.” With a great inhale, the dragon’s maw opens wide and a mighty torrent of blue flame jets out from the depths of its throat, engulfing Connor in a vast inferno of blistering heat. The enchantments on his robes hold just barely, the sigils on his skin surging as they draw from his power to block the fire from immolating him. His skin prickles under the surging heat as he wraps himself tighter in his robes, teeth grit tightly under the strain on his power.  

 

The dragon’s jaws finally snap shut against the flames and Connor slowly pushes his hood back. The creature lowers its head, claws digging into the stone below it as it growls furiously.  

 

“Witch,” the dragon seethes. “Mage. Enchanter. Get out of my cave before I  _throw you out_.” 

 

“I don’t want to harm you,” Connor insists. “I’m willing to trade anything. I only need a few scales.” 

 

“Go  _away,”_  the dragon bellows, lunging for Connor, a huge claw slashing down and missing the mage by inches. Connor skitters back to the mouth of the cavern, hands outstretched in a gesture of peace.  

 

“Lord,” Connor murmurs. “I only-“ 

 

The dragon spits a globule of magma at Connor’s feet and skulks further into the cavern until its body is hidden by shadow. Connor edges away from the molten spittle, expression drawn with frustration. This won’t be an easy task. But Connor expected nothing less.  

 

xXx 

 

Once it realises it can’t kill him, the dragon ignores Connor’s presence as though he’s little more than a particularly bothersome fly. It has a bad habit of sweeping its tail across the cavern floor to smack Connor away every time he gets too close, but he doesn’t attempt to roast or claw him again. One particularly vicious swipe knocks Connor into the cavern wall with enough force to bruise is ribs, and after that, Connor keeps his distance, electing to stay near the cavern entrance with his small fire and a few tomes to pass the time with.  

 

The dragon watches him sometimes, one eye rolling to focus on him without turning it’s great head, like it’s trying to be subtle. After the sixth or so time Connor catches it, Connor starts to read aloud, clear and careful, giving the dragon something to listen to.  

 

Connor sketches the dragon with charcoal and water, covering many pages of parchment with drawings and notes. The dragon is male, Connor notes by the length of the spines on his back and the number of teeth he counts when he yawns. Several hundred years old if his scales and the length of his claws are anything to go by. He hides a small smile when the dragon stretches his neck out to inspect the drawings, and doesn’t comment when one ivory claw reaches out to drag one closer to keep.  

 

“Here,” the dragon says one day, pushing an old tome towards Connor with the tip of a claw. “Read this one. Aloud, if you’d be so kind. I can’t turn the pages myself.” 

 

Connor complies happily, resting the book on bent knees as he starts to read, listening to the soft, earth-shaking purr that rumbles from the dragon’s throat.  

 

“Do you have a name?” The dragon asks, eyes closed. He sounds softer, less aggressive. Sleepy, Connor realises.  

 

“Connor,” he tells him. “You may call me Connor.” 

 

“Connor,” the dragon says, the name falling pleasantly from scaled jaws.  

 

“And what may I call you?” 

 

The dragon laughs, smoke curling from his nostrils. “You can attempt to pronounce it, but you might dislocate your jaw.” 

 

“Then, may I give you a name?” 

 

“You can try,” the dragon says, resting a claw over his snout.  

 

Connor is immensely amused to discover that dragons snore.  

 

xXx 

 

“Eraadving,” Connor offers, tossing a hunk of meat towards the dragon. He snaps it up in one bite, tongue slithering out to lick its jaws. Connor returns to the deer carcass to cut off another chunk.  

 

“No,” the dragon says. “That’s a terrible name.” 

 

“Miveraal?” 

 

“Even worse. Try harder. I thought you were supposed to be smart?” 

 

Connor throws the next chunk of meat a little harder. The dragon lets out a rumbling laugh and snaps it out of the air.  

 

xXx 

 

“Ciiroddiix?” 

 

“That sounds like a disease. Are you even trying?” 

 

“Well, tell me what you want me to call you, then!” 

 

“No, this is fun. Tell me another story while you try to come up with another stupid name.” 

 

“ _Fine._ Let’s see... Ah, once when I was searching for a rare bloom of aster, I boarded a ship from...” 

 

xXx 

 

“I’ve got it!” Connor says, startling the dragon from his careful grooming routine. He narrows his eyes at the mage, lowering his foreleg and giving himself a shake. 

 

“What have you got?” 

 

“I’ve been trying to give you a name like the ones humans have been giving to dragons throughout history,” Connor says excitedly. “But that’s not going to work. I need to give you a more human name.” 

 

“I mean, as long as it’s not stupid like yours.” 

 

“How about... Cornelius?” 

 

“How about fuck off?” 

 

“Thomas?” 

 

“No.” 

 

“Peter?” 

 

“I’m gonna throw you off the mountain.” 

 

“Hank?” 

 

The dragon pauses, head cocked thoughtfully to one side. “Hank,” he repeats slowly. “That’s not... terrible.” 

 

“There was a drunk in the village I was born in called Hank. You remind me of him.” 

 

“You know you’re not supposed to insult a dragon, right?” 

 

“Yes, Hank, I know.” 

 

Hank, now dubbed, snorts and swats Connor’s head with the tip of his tail – not hard – and returns to cleaning his scales with that long, rough tongue. Connor grins happily to himself and settles back against Hank’s hind leg to resume reading from another of the worn tomes Hank has gifted him. 

 

xXx 

 

Connor spends just shy of a month in Hank’s cavern, trading stories and knowledge, so wrapped up in their own private world that he almost forgets the life he has outside the cave. He realises with a heavy heart that their time must come to an end and he must return to his shop, to his life, and inform the king that he was unable to locate any scales for his armour. 

 

It feels wrong to ask for them now. 

 

“I'll be sad to go,” Connor murmurs, chin resting on folded arms propped on his knees. Hank hums low in his chest, the sound vibrating through the ground, and Connor leans to the side to rest against Hank’s neck while they watch the sunset together. “I’m honoured to call a dragon my friend.” 

 

“You’re welcome to visit me,” Hank says, one wing draping over Connor like a blanket. “I... Don’t hate your company.” 

 

Connor smiles and scratches the soft, leathery hide beneath Hank’s jaw that isn’t protected by scales. Hank rumbles happily, tilting his head to Connor can reach better. “I’ll miss you,” Connor murmurs. 

 

“I’ll miss you, too. Stupid mage.” 

 

xXx 

 

Connor wakes curled against the warmth of Hank’s underbelly, the gems coating his stomach glittering in the soft dawn light. He yawns and stretches, rolling onto his side. 

 

And winces as he rolls onto something sharp. 

 

Sitting up, Connor rubs his eyes, blinking away sleep so he can focus on the sharpness that jabbed into his back. He stares. Rubs his eyes again for good measure.  

 

A pile of dragon scales, shining like silver coins in the early morning light. He reaches out slowly, picking one up and weighing it in his palm. It’s surprisingly heavy, about two inches thick, tapering down into a thin point toward the bottom end. It resembles the most exotic petal. Connor curls his fingers around it, holding the scale to his chest. 

 

“For a friend,” Hank says, watching Connor through one half-open eye. “Take them all. No trade, they’re a gift.” He lifts his foreleg, showing a large spot on his underbelly that is now bare, leathery hide missing its protective scales. “They’ll grow back. And... Promise me you’ll do good with them?” 

 

“I promise,” Connor says, clutching the scale in his hand until the sharp edges cut into his fingers. “Thank you.” 

 

Hank dips his head once. “When you’re ready, I’ll carry you to the forest.” 

 

Connor gathers his things with a heavy heart, not even attempting to hide the way his gaze lingers on Hank, even when their eyes meet and something tinged with longing passes between them. Each time Hank shifts like he wants to say something, but he keeps his silence and digs grooves into the cavern walls with his claws. 

 

Connor wonders what would happen if he forsook his life back home. Closed down the shop and stayed here with Hank, the companion of a dragon. They could see the world together, something like love between them, bound emotionally if not physically. 

 

But Connor has people who rely on him. He has potions to brew and poultices to mix. He cannot abandon his customers. Not even for his own happiness. 

 

Bags full and laden down with rare tomes and Hank’s scales, Connor enchants them into weightlessness and climbs onto the space at the base of Hank’s neck that is free of spines, clutching tightly to the horned crests that frame his shoulders. Hank moves slowly to the mouth of the cavern, raising his head to the sky and spreading his wings wide. It’s the first time Connor has seen Hank at his full length. He reaches just over fifty feet from the tip of his snout to the end of his tail, his wingspan easily matching it.  

 

Connor lurches forward as Hank throws himself into the air with a powerful downward beat of his wings, unable to stop the exhilarated yell that rips from his lungs as Hank spirals into the sky. His legs pump rapidly as he climbs higher and higher, until the summit of the mountain is below them and the air is thin and icy. Connor feels lightheaded and dizzy, weightless and carefree with the heavens almost close enough to touch, and he roars as Hank does with the joy of it, before the dragon snaps his wings in tight, and turns towards the earth in a terrifying nose dive. 

 

Connor bellows with fear and excitement as Hank corkscrews towards the ground like an arrow loosed from a bow, the world around them blurring into nothing the faster they go. Connor can’t close his eyes though they water and sting against the rush of cold wind, can only watch as the spinning ground gets closer and closer. 

 

Hank’s wings flare wide with the click of bone, catching the updrafts from the earth in the membranes and hauling them into a steady glide. Connor clutches to Hank’s neck, panting and laughing, so overcome with the wonder of it that he can barely breath. He can feel Hank’s laughter rumbling beneath him, through his body into his bones, into his soul. 

 

It makes the goodbye, when it comes, taste all the more bitter on Connor’s tongue. 

 

xXx 

 

Connor throws himself into his work with a motivation that burns in its intensity. He’s no blacksmith, but he knows enough from years spent enchanting armour to craft the pieces well enough with his magic, slaving over his workbench, sweat dripping from his skin as he conjures and imbues until his strength is spent and he has to rest. The scales are delightful to work with and they bend to the will of Connor’s magic like they  _want_ to obey him, like they were meant to carry his magic inside them.  

 

His chest aches with how much he misses the dragon they belong to, but he forces it down, throws himself into his creation until he forgets everything but the heady taste of magic on his tongue and the deep ache of exhaustion in his bones. 

 

He works until he collapses, dog-tired and unable to move. He works until the armour is complete and the air all around the apothecary thrums with excess magic. Connor sleeps for three days before he is rested enough to send word with a courier to the king, and even then he just shoves a scroll into the courier’s hands along with a gold coin before slamming the door shut and falling back into bed. He stuffs a hand underneath his pillow, fingers closing around the prettiest of the scales that he has kept for himself, and sleeps. 

 

Two days later, a guarded escort comes to collect the armour. Connor hides the leftover scales and denies having any excess when asked. The escort returns the following day with a formal writ of gratitude from the king, and two coffers filled to the brim with coins. Connor stares at them somewhat numbly, unable to shake the feeling that he’s made a terrible mistake. 

 

xXx 

 

Connor uses the rest of the scales as well as he can, trying to quell the unquiet guilt that rolls inexplicably through his stomach. He makes potent elixirs, cures as many ills as he can, does as much good as he’s able to in the hopes of balancing the scales he can’t shake the feeling he has badly altered. He takes a few smaller potions into the city to give away, after all he has no use for money now, though he does trade some for a dragon figurine carved from silver birch because it twinges something deep in his chest. 

 

It’s there in the market that it happens. Connor realises exactly what he has done. 

 

The hunter’s stall is filled a usual with game, fish and fowl. But what stands out starkly, blindingly, is the pile of silver scales spilling out from a heavy sack strewn across the worktop. Connor stumbles over, choking on his words as he siezes the hunter by the shoulders. 

 

“Where did you get those scales,” he demands, fingers digging into the poor man’s shoulders. “Where did you get them?! 

 

The hunter winces but cannot shake off Connor’s iron grip. “The king’s guard returned with them a few days ago. They’ve been hunting monsters in the Western forest. They say the king’s nigh on invincible now, and he took a dragon on in single combat.” 

 

Connor nearly wretches, bile roiling through his stomach. He lurches away from the hunter’s stall and tears through the city towards the guards’ barracks, fully intent of torturing the information out of one of them if he has to.  

 

But it doesn’t come to that. The guards are more than happy to tell the story of their beloved king, boastful and gloating as they spin the tale of how he rose against the ferocious beast clad in his own enchanted armour crafted from dragon scales. How he cut the beast down with a grievous wound to its underbelly; a valiant strike against an unprotected part of its hide. 

 

Where its scales where missing. 

 

Connor actually does vomit. Stumbles down an alleyway to purge himself until his throat is burning and his eyes are stinging. He hates himself so virulently that he trembles with it, hands clenched onto fists dug against his knees.  

 

He has to fix this. He has to find Hank. Before it’s too late and he bleeds to death alone and in agony. 

 

Outside the city, Connor steals a horse from the stables, ignoring the furious shouts that echo behind him as he pushes the beast into a breakneck gallop, hands fisted in its mane. He needs to get home, gather what supplies he can. He might have time to scry if he’s quick, to get a better idea of Hank’s location rather than relying on the latent energies of his last remaining scale to guide him. He can’t fail. This is all his fault. He should have told Hank to move, he should never have taken the contract. 

 

If Hank is dead, Connor will never forgive himself. 

 

He releases the steed outside his shop, not caring whether it stays or bolts into the forest. He shoulders the door open and heads straight for his storeroom, mentally cataloguing all the supplies he has that might be enough to heal a dragon. 

 

He doesn’t get far. Halfway through the shop he slips, careens hard into a cupboard headfirst with enough force to rattle the teeth in his skill. He lifts a hand to the back of his head, dazed and pained, and pulls away fingers slicked with blood. His robes are covered with it. 

 

But it’s not his. The floor of the storeroom is awash with it, a macabre scene of gore that trails through to his living quarters. He rises onto unsteady legs and stumbles through, feet slipping in the blood, clutching onto the doorway for balance when his vision flickers and dims.  

 

There’s a man lying prone on his bed, silver haired, soaking the sheets with his blood. He’s curled up on his right side, fingers clutching the crimson-stained sheets. Curved ivory horns curl up from his forehead and icy blue eyes clouded with fever meet Connor’s as the man draws a rattling, shaky breath through clenched teeth. 

 

 _“Connor...”_  

 

Tears spill from the mage’s and he falls to his knees beside the bed, clutching one broad hand in both of his. Hank’s skin is burning hot, slick with sweat and blood. The wound in his side is deep and badly infected, dirty and jagged. If Connor doesn’t act quickly, Hank will die, bleed out here in his bed if the infection doesn’t kill him first. 

 

Connor darts away from the bed, barrels into the stockroom to fill his arms with everything he might need, poppy seeds, mugwort, fennel and lamb’s cress. Dozens of bottles and tinctures covered in dust, the most potent brews he has available. He gathers them all along with bandages and water, kneeling by Hank’s side while he cleans the wound, hands stained red up to his forearms as he works. Hank’s breathing is laboured, sticky with blood in his lungs and Connor blinks tears from his eyes as he packs the wound with medicinal herbs and bandages it as best he can. He supports Hank’s head and makes him drink brew after brew, then sits vigil, hands raised to cast every spell he knows to counteract infection and internal bleeding.  

 

They remain locked like that until night becomes day then darkens to evening again, Connor never faltering in his casting, Hank’s breathing slowly easing until his chest is rising and falling evenly and the sickly pallor has faded from his skin. Connor aches with exhaustion, but this is his penitence. This is his fault. He should never have made the armour, should have told Hank to leave. Never sought him out in the first place.  

 

Connor downs another potion for alertness and vitality, desperately trying to still his trembling hands. He doesn’t know how long he’s been awake, working over Hank, tending to the wound, but he doesn’t care. He won’t rest until Hank is healed. Until those blue eyes open unclouded by fever. Until then, Connor will work over him, dedicated and unfaltering. 

 

It takes seven days for Hank’s fever to break. Seven days and Connor hasn’t slept, hasn’t eaten, surviving on vitality potions alone. He slumps in his chair, head drooping and hands falling as he severs the flow of magic pouring from his body to Hank’s. His head is pounding, his pulse sending throbs of pain through every inch of his body. He feels sick to his stomach, but he won’t rest until he… Until… 

 

He sags, slipping sideways from his seat, unable to stay upright any longer. His vision darkens and he’s so exhausted he can’t even brace himself for the impending impact as he hits the floor.  

 

Except he doesn’t.  

 

A strong arm catches him, bundles him up tight against warm skin. Connor opens bleary eyes but he can’t focus on anything but ruddy skin and silver hair. His vision swims and he can’t keep his eyes open. He feels more than he hears the low rumble of words spoken against his temple.  

 

“…Sleep. You look like shit.” 

 

And Connor is lost.  

 

xXx 

 

Connor wakes to a warm weight heavy against his back, a solid arm under his head, and another cinched tightly round his midriff. Slow, even breaths fan against his neck and when he moves, the weight shifts and nuzzles closer. He shifts as much as he can, body stiff and bone-deep tired, but he needs to see the face of the man holding him. Needs to assure himself that this is real and that he’s alive.  

 

Fathomless blue eyes slide open, bright and clear of fever and Connor’s breath catches in his throat. Hank smiles, and it  _is_  Hank. Even though his form is changed, Connor would know those eyes anywhere. He reaches a shaking hand up to brush his fingertips over Hank’s cheek and those same eyes crinkle into a tired smile as he leans his face into Connor’s palm, a gentle rumble vibrating through his chest. Tears well in Connor’s eyes, unbidden and uncontrolled, spilling down his cheeks as he gives a pained sob. 

 

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes, leaning forward to press his forehead against Hank’s. “It’s all my fault. I had no idea but that’s no excuse. I’m so sorry. I should never have taken the commission.” 

 

Hank shifts back a little, one arm still slung around Connor’s waist though the mage expects him to snatch it back at any moment, to shift into his mighty form and rip through the house and kill him. It’s less than he deserves for this unspeakable crime he’s committed. 

 

But Hank does none of that. He sighs a heavy breath and nods his head slowly. ”So it was you who crafted the armour. I thought I felt… It doesn’t matter. You couldn’t have known.” 

 

“I  _should_  have.” Connor moves to pull away but Hank’s arms are manacles around his body, effectively pinning him down.  

 

“Listen to me,” Hank rumbles, voice deep and firm. “You couldn’t have known. And you saved my life. Do you know how much power it takes to keep my kind alive? You have the heart of a dragon.” His mouth quirks up in something like a half smile. “Twofold, it seems.” 

 

“Hank, I-“ 

 

“Shush. Now, not to be rude, but have you got anything to eat?” 

 

Connor leaps up as soon as Hank releases him, hurrying into his kitchen. There’s dried blood all over the floor and his clothes are stiff with it, but he ignores it, grabbing everything he can lay his hands on to throw into a pot for stew. He pours in a few vitality elixirs for good measure, waving a hand to ignite the fireplace as he fills the pot with water. He grunts as the magic seeps weakly out of him, aching like a pulled muscle, but he forces it out anyway. His discomfort is just another price he must pay for his transgression.  

 

He brings in a full steaming bowl not much later, handing it to Hank who has pushed himself up against the headboard. He takes it eagerly but frowns when he notices the single bowl. “Aren’t you going to eat?” 

 

“I’m not hungry.” It’s the truth. Connor’s been so fixated on keeping Hank alive and downing vitality elixirs that he’s not eaten for days. He’ll need something light before he can eat again unless he wants to spew the contents of his stomach straight back up again.  

 

“You should clean off at least,” Hank mutters, inhaling the stew. “You reek.” 

 

Connor manages a weak smile. “So do you. Seconds?” 

 

“Please.” 

 

Connor refills the bowl and fetches clean clothes for the both of them, filling his bathing pool with hot water while Hank eats his fill. He cleans himself first, intensely aware of ancient blue eyes following his every move but he’s too exhausted for modesty. The hot water soothes the bone-deep ache in his body and it feels good to wash the gore from his skin. Clean and dressed, he refills the tub and helps Hank from the bed into the pool.  

 

“Godsdamn…” Hank groans, sinking into the water. “Fuck, how do you ever do anything else? I’d stay in here forever…” 

 

Connor hums and kneels beside to pool to help wash the blood from Hank’s long hair, combing through the soft silver locks and tying them back neatly with a leather cord. Hank rumbles happily, eyes sliding closed while Connor tends to him, content to just let the mage care for him as best he can.  

 

“What was the money for?” Hank asks after a long while and Connor pauses in the act of washing blood and dirt from Hank’s shoulders.  

 

“I… travelled a lot when I was younger,” Connor says, slowly returning to his task. Rivulets of water drip down the strong muscles of Hank’s back. “When I was learning my craft. I travelled as far as I could for as long as I could, then traded my services and skills for passage back when the money ran out. I set up a store here hoping one day I’d earn enough to travel again and learn more. But the village nearby suffered an outbreak of the plague and… Well, I couldn’t let them die. After that, they came to me for everything and I cured what I could. There are a lot of people there who rely on me, so everything I earn goes to the market place for the herbs I can’t find locally and other ingredients for what they need.” 

 

“So the money was a way out?” 

 

“Yes, I suppose. Lean forward please.” Hank obeys. “I was going to buy everything I’d need to make as many tonics and poultices as they required, then sell the shop and travel again. That was what I wanted. I never thought…” 

 

“I know. Connor, it wasn’t your fault.” 

 

“You can’t-“ 

 

“I  _can_. They were my scales. What did you do with the rest of them?” 

 

“I made the strongest elixirs I could for the village. To tide them over while I was gone. Everything was going towards me leaving. That’s all I… That’s all I wanted.” 

 

Hank hums and turns round in the water so he can meet Connor’s eyes. His gaze is heavy but Connor can’t look away. “You did what you could to free yourself from obligation,” Hank says. “No one can fault you for that.” 

 

Connor sits back on his heels, damp hands in his lap. He can’t quite find the words to voice what he wants to; the cloying sense of guilt, the urge to berate himself, the desire to beg for forgiveness. He’s not sure how Hank can forgive him for this without Connor throwing himself at his feet, but there isn’t a shred of blame in his eyes. Only endless, infinite patience and something like affection that makes Connor’s cheeks heat.  

 

“Thank you,” Connor murmurs instead. “I… I’m glad you… Don’t blame me.” 

 

“I told you, you hold the heart of a dragon. I couldn’t blame you even if I wanted to.” 

 

Connor isn’t quite sure what that means, but he finds himself smiling anyway.  

 

xXx 

 

“Stop fussing, I’m  _fine._ ” 

 

“If you undo all my hard work, I’ll be so angry. Just let me check the bandages!” 

 

“No, I’m  _fine!”_  Hank lunges away from Connor as he advances, hissing and clutching his injured side with a pained wince. Connor folds his arms and gives him a pointed look until Hank surrenders with a grumble. He peels off the bandages and sighs, pressing gently at the reddened skin around the healing wound, prompting another hiss from the dragon.  

 

“It’s not infected, but if you keep jumping around the place, you’ll tear it open again.” 

 

“I can’t help it. I’m going stir crazy in here.”  

 

“I know, but the guards are on the lookout and… Well, the horns are a bit of a giveaway.” 

 

Hank makes a face that is dangerously close to a pout. Connor hides a grin by ducking his head and placing a clean bandage over the wound. “Well, can’t you do something about them? Glamour them away?” 

 

“I don’t specialise in glamours,” Connor says, straightening up. “But, if you take it easy for… three more days, I’ll see what I can do.” 

 

“Promise?” 

 

“Promise.” 

 

xXx 

 

True enough to his word, Hank spends the next three days only barely toeing the line of “taking it easy”. He putters around the house like a large, irritable house cat, but he seems determined to at least make himself useful rather than just skulk around moodily. He joins Connor is his workshop most days, half perched on a clear space of the workbench while Connor carves runes into gems and brews various different concoctions in his cauldrons. Hank asks questions every now and then, flicking through Connor’s vast collection of books and poking around the shelves of the storeroom, and Connor finds that he absolutely delights in the company.  

 

Connor packs away all his recent brews into a single crate lined with straw to protect the bottles, turning his attention back to the amulet that’s been giving him trouble for the past two days. Hank hovers over his shoulder while he works, warm breath ghosting over the back of Connor’s neck and that’s so very unhelpfully arousing that Connor swats him away and proclaims him a nuisance, curling in on himself to nurse his every growing attraction in secret.  

 

It doesn’t help that Hank in his human guise is so very, very…  _large._ He has no clothes other than the shirt and britches he managed to find when he stole into the village in search of Connor’s shop, and even those are too tight on his frame. He forgoes the shirt most days, wearing only the britches and Connor has to resign himself to the fact that the blush may never leave his cheeks.  

 

“I was just going to point out,” Hank says, the ghost of a smirk twisting his lips, “that you’ve miscarved.” 

 

“What?” Connor snaps the word, hot and bothered and irritable. “No I haven’t.” 

 

“Yeah, you have.” Hank leans in again, all of his considerably mass crowding into Connor’s personal space. He smells like pine trees and honey and something indescribably wild that thrums with power and magic older than the earth and Connor’s mouth waters just a little bit. “You carved ‘ _s’vakro_ _,’_ which is ‘shielded’. You want the verb instead, otherwise it’ll fuck the whole spell up. You need ‘ _s’vakrothir_ _’_.” 

 

Connor looks down at the carving and groans, low and protracted. Hank’s right. He’s not wholly to blame. If Hank would stop strutting about the place half dressed maybe Connor could actually get some proper work done. Still he leans back over his project and carefully etches in the correcting runes, blowing away the rock dust as he sets the final gem into the metal base of the amulet, lifting the pendant to check it over for impurities.  

 

“Looks good,” Hank says with an approving nod and Connor snatches up the pleasant thrum of pride the praise gives him to cherish. He smiles and hands the amulet to Hank who frowns down at it, turning it over in his hands.  

 

“Put it on, then,” Connor instructs. “I need to see if it works.” Hanks makes an uncertain face and slips the chain over his head. It rests attractively in the silver hair on his chest, glinting in the low candlelight. He looks up to Connor as though searching for approval and Connor flicks his eyes up to the horns curling up from the top of Hank’s head.  

 

Or, more accurately, where they were a few moments ago. Connor gives a pleased him and reaches up to where he knows they would be. He can feel a resistance pushing against his palm as he gets close and Hank’s eyes widen as he realises what Connor has done. He darts across the room to the water basin, staring down at his hornless reflection.  

 

“Holy fuck,” he breathes out, breath casting ripples into the water. “That looks so strange.” 

 

“You’d almost pass for human,” Connor says, laughing at the look of affront Hank shoots him. “Now come here and let me measure you. You can’t go outside dressed like that. You’ll give someone a heart attack.” 

 

“What the fuck do you want to measure me for,” Hank grumbles, stepping closer anyway. Connor just hums in response and snatches up his tape measure, circling Hank’s body with as much polite detachment as he can muster, forcing his hands not to linger for too long. Hank allows the fussing, moving when prompted though he rolls his eyes so often Connor has half a mind to hex him cross-eyed for the next hour. 

 

“Alright,” Connor says, scribbling the measurements onto a spare scrap of parchment. “You stay put, I have a few errands to run, but I promise you, tomorrow, we’ll go out and you can work of some of your restless energy.” 

 

Hank wrinkles his nose but doesn’t argue. Connor fetches his satchel and heads out, exhaling shakily once he gets outside. 

 

xXx 

 

The nearby village is already halfway through preparations when Connor arrives, slipping through the crowds of excited bystanders and market keepers for the tailors just on the outskirts. Colourful banners and streamers hang from every roof and signpost, and strings on unlit lanterns are hung between all the huts and houses in preparation for tomorrow.  

 

Connor slips into the tailor’s unseen, parchment clutched in his hand as he heads to the counter. Kara smiles when she sees him, looking up from the dress she has draped over her lap. 

 

“Connor,” she greets warmly, setting the garment to one side. “It’s so good to see you.” She gets to her feet and rounds the counter to hold his arms as she leans in to kiss his cheek. 

 

“Are you well? He asks, following her through to the back room where she keeps all her fabrics. A small kettle rests over a modest fire and she lifts it off the hook to pour a cup of tea for them both.  

 

“I am,” Kara says, handing him a steaming cup. It smells like blackberries and juniper. “And you?” 

 

“Very well.” Connor sips the tea, humming happily. “I was hoping I could possibly purchase your services. I’ve been busy and haven’t had the time to prepare an outfit for tomorrow.” 

 

“Cutting it incredibly close,” Kara teases him. “What did you have in mind?” 

 

“Nothing too elaborate.” Connor pulls two pages of parchment from his satchel. “But I’ve got a- a friend attending with me. It’ll be his first festival and I wanted it to be special.” 

 

Kara’s eyes sparkle with something knowing that makes Connor’s cheeks flare red, but she takes the parchment anyway, glancing over the simple designs with a trained eye. “Shouldn’t be too difficult,” she hums thoughtfully. “I like the designs. Would you mind if I added a few things in?” 

 

“Not at all,” Connor says, shoulders sagging in relief. “Obviously I’ll pay extra-” 

 

“Don’t be silly,” Kara admonishes him. “I’ve told you before, you never have to pay here. If not for you, Alice and I...” She trails off. “As I said, you don’t have to pay.” 

 

“That’s very generous of you,” Connor says, slipping a hand behind his back and drawing a sign in the air to shift a handful of coins from his purse into the box on the counter. Kara is too generous for her own good. 

 

“I’ll have them ready by tomorrow morning,” Kara says. “Is that alright?” 

 

“Perfect.” Connor beams.  

 

xXx 

 

The outfits are perfect, just as Connor knew they would be. One with deep brown britches and black boots paired with a grey doublet carefully decorated with threads of silver and faux scales on the sleeves. The second is a soft, periwinkle blue tunic edged with white, faun britches and oak brown boots. As always, the needlework is remarkable and Kara’s soft smile is tinted with pride as Connor carefully wraps the garments in cloth and clutches them to his chest. He bids her farewell with a promise to visit again soon, and hurries home with his precious cargo. 

 

Hank is understandably suspicious of the package Connor won’t let him know the contents of, skulking around the shop more moodily than usual. Connor hides his smile and holds of on teasing the dragon too much, at least until after lunch when he finally unwraps the garments and holds the doublet up for Hank’s inspection. 

 

“Looks fancy,” Hank says, running a hand over the sleeves. “What’s it for?” 

 

“You,” Connor tells him, unfolding his own tunic. “Wash up and get dressed. And brush your hair. You look like a dirty sheep.” 

 

Hank grumbles at the insult but does as he’s bid anyway, leaving Connor to his own preparations while he makes himself presentable. Excitement skitters low in Connor’s stomach as he dresses, brushing down the soft fabric of the tunic and inspecting himself in the old mirror in his bedroom. He looks rather well put together, if he does say so himself, but he just hopes that Hank will think the same. 

 

Not that the dragon has much knowledge of human fashions. 

 

Not half an hour later Hank is stepping out of the washroom, dressed in his new clothes and his hair – Connor does a double take – tied back into an artfully dishevelled ponytail with a simple leather throng. Connor’s mouth runs dry and Hank scowls self-consciously at the lack of positive response. 

 

“Well?” He wriggles, nose scrunched up. “How does it look? Stupid?” 

 

“No, no, it looks good.  _You_ look good.” Connor offers him a smile, perhaps not as confident as he was going for, but Hank still flushes and ducks his head, tugging at his sleeves awkwardly. 

 

“Thanks,” he grunts, staring at the floor. 

 

“Shall we?” Connor asks, clearing his throat and gesturing for the door. Hank throws a doubtful look to the window and the slowly darkening sky. 

 

“Why do humans go out at night?” He asks, following Connor anyway. “It’s not like you can see in the dark.” 

 

“Night time is for frivolity,” Connor says cryptically, grinning at the grumpy confusion on Hank’s face. “You’ll enjoy it, I promise.” 

 

“Alright,” Hank murmurs. “I trust you.” 

 

Connor’s heart stutters. 

 

xXx 

 

The village, when they arrive just after sundown, is alight with torches and lanterns, lively music drifting into the night above the sounds of happy, excited voices as the people mill around the colourful stalls. Connor ducks and weaves between them all, Hank close behind, as they head towards the central bonfire where vibrantly dressed performers are already caught in a perfectly choreographed display. The firelight glints attractively in Hank’s eyes and the shadows cast on his face make him look sharper, younger. Connor looks away when he feels his cheek start to heat, hoping he can blame it on the crowd and the heat from the fire.  

 

“What is this?” Hank asks, icy eyes alight with curiosity. Connor steps closer so Hank can hear him over the music. 

 

“It’s the Midsummer festival,” Connor explains, voice raised to carry over the music and buzz of a hundred voices. “The entire kingdom celebrates it. It’s a celebration of magic and the dragons it flows from.” He grabs Hank’s hand and tugs him along to a couple of the food stalls, handing over coins in exchange for treats his shares with the dragon, watching intently Hank’s reaction as he tries each sugary sweet, face lighting up with pleasure. 

 

They wander from stall to stall, picking up a few trinkets for the memories, mainly because Hank’s eyes are drawn to anything sparkly just as a magpie’s would be. Connor smiles as he slips a simple silver band onto Hank’s wrist, feeling the contented purr rumble through his chest in response. 

 

“I don’t know what to give you in return,” Hank admits, looking at Connor like he’s some sort of intricate puzzle. Connor looks away quickly, giving a one-shouldered shrug. 

 

“You don’t have to give me anything,” he says stiltedly. “It’s a gift. Something friends do.” 

 

 _Friends._ It stings a little, but Connor knows better than to want impossible things. Well. His head does, at least, even if his heart does not. 

 

They return to the fire as the performers line up again, clad in glittering costumes with arching spines and horns. Wonder flits across the dragon’s face and it’s the most delightful sight Connor has seen in his life. “They’re really celebrating us?” Hank asks as a performer wearing a dragon mask is tossed up high into the air, twisting her body sinuously before she lands in the arms of her partner. Connor hums an affirmation, slipping two gold coins into the hands of a passing peddler and handing Hank a cup of mead.  

 

“Every year,” Connor tells him, sipping the honeyed beverage. “It’s as important as the winter solstice. I never miss it.” 

 

Hank sips his own drink after a cursory sniff and makes a delighted sound. “I wonder how they’d react to an actual dragon showing up to the festivities.” 

 

“Please don’t.” 

 

“I won’t, don’t worry. Not tonight, anyway.” 

 

Connor throws Hank a disparaging glance and gets a playful grin in response that makes his heart flutter. He sips his drink for lack of anything better to do, turning back to the dancers as they complete their routine and bow gracefully. The music shifts into something even livelier, a steady beat underneath that has Connor tapping his foot as he sways slightly in place to the rhythm. Others from the crowd move forward towards the bonfire, dancing with their loved ones and partners and Connor feels slightly wistful that he can’t be out there with anyone.  

 

He could maybe ask… 

 

No. Stupid idea.  

 

“Oh, I get it,” Hank says after a moment, pulling Connor out of dangerous thoughts. “It’s only eight steps repeated. Looks simple enough.” 

 

“It’s a traditional festival dance—“ 

 

“Yeah, don’t care about that.” He grins and grabs Connor’s arm. “Come on!” 

 

“What—“ Connor yelps as Hank yanks him forward, into the throng of people already moving to the music. Connor’s cheeks flare scarlet as Hank pulls him up so they’re facing each other, raising his arm haltingly so his wrist is crossed against Hank’s, fingers splayed.  

 

“Relax,” Hank says, giving him a wink. “Don’t you want to dance with me?” 

 

Connor makes a strange squawking noise and clamps his mouth shut to avoid embarrassing himself further, nodding quickly instead. Hank grins and takes a few moments to feel the beat of the music before moving, right arm dropping and left arm raising as Connor mirrors him and they slip into the quick-paced steps of the dance. It takes a few stumbling moments for Connor to lose his hesitancy and let the music rush through him, but the heat and light of the fire and the sparkling mirth in Hank’s eyes makes everything else fall away until there’s only the music and the exhilaration of the celebrations around them.  

 

Hank moves easily like he’s known the steps all his life, slightly less sinuous in his human form, but no less enthusiastic. His hands are warm against Connor’s skin when they touch, palm to palm and wrist to wrist as they spin around each other, burning almost as hot as the fire flickering beside them. Connor can’t keep the grin off his face as they dance, caught up in this world of music and light that’s just the two of them. He feels flushed and exhilarated, skin prickling like lightning is surging through his blood, and a gasp falls from his lips as Hank breaks from the routine to slip an arm round his waist and spin him agilely, pulling him tight against his body. He feels the exuberant laughter rumble through Hank’s body and answers with his own jubilance as the dragon lifts him in his arms, tossing him up into the air like he weighs nothing. The world blurs into orange, deep velvet blue and starlight, the heady beat of the music and the solid press of Hank’s arms as he catches Connor surely.  

 

He feels drunk on the joy of it, despite only the single cup of mead in his stomach. He can’t even use inebriation as the excuse for why he moves forward, flinging his arms round Hank’s neck as he surges up on the balls of his feet to press his lips to Hank’s in a bruisingly eager kiss.  

 

Time stops the moment their lips meet and everything slows down to that single point of contact, the heat of skin against skin, the tightness of breath in his chest and the taste of mead and pine on his tongue. Hank’s hands still where they rest against Connor’s hips and in a jarring rush reality comes screeching back in and Connor jerks away like he’s been scalded. 

 

“I-I’m sorry,” Connor stutters, hands raised in a useless half gesture. ”I didn’t-” 

 

Hank lunges forward, quick like a striking snake, hands cupping Connor’s flushed face as he tilts his head up to claim his mouth again. Lips soft and eager, Connor melts under them with a shudder, falling into the solid weight of Hank’s chest with a helpless sound of longing. One of Hank’s broad hands stays cupped gently round his jaw, the other slips down, over the curve of Connor’s hip to rest with splayed fingers in the small of his back. He can feel Hank’s heart beat reverberate through his own body, the constant, steady thud that drums into his mind until all he can feel is its rhythm, the intoxicating brush of Hank’s lips, and the ever present taste of honey and pine.  

 

Hank pulls away slowly with a rough gasp, forehead resting against Connor’s. The hair on the top of the mage’s head prickles and quivers as the magic shielding Hank’s horns brushes against them, but Hank’s eyes are so blue and so soft they’re all he can focus on. His breathing is ragged and unsteady, hitching in his throat on every third inhale.  

 

“Connor,” Hank murmurs, so softly it aches somewhere deep beneath Connor’s ribs. He wants to answer but words have failed him. He clings to Hank’s silver sleeves with shaking fingers, able to do little else.  

 

“Connor,” Hank says again, louder, rougher. “Let’s go.” 

 

It’s enough to spur him into movement. Their hands catch and clutch as they break away from each other, but the entrancing spell lingers as they slip away from the noise and the festivities, chasing the cool shadows on the village outskirts where the music fades and the night awaits. Connor knows this village, knows the way, even as the match striking alight in his stomach flares with nervous excitement and threatens to overwhelm him. They reach the barn and Hank shoulders the door open with a firm shove before dragging Connor in after him and pushing him up against the door as it closes. 

 

Connor stares up at him with wide eyes and a dry mouth. Slowly, Hank slips the amulet off over his head and, as the chain rises over his hair, his horns materialise like they were never gone. They curl up like a stately crown framing his head, and Connor’s fingers itch with the urge to touch them. Hank watches him intently, eyes flicking rapidly over his face.  

 

“Tell me,” Hank says, barely more than a whisper. It’s deafening in the quiet all the same.  

 

Connor closes his eyes tightly, heart jumping into his throat. He swallows hard to contain it, and pushes the words out on a desperate breath.  

 

“I love you.” 

 

Suddenly Hank’s hands are everywhere, burning his skin, lifting him, holding him. Hank’s mouth is hot and hungry against his own, and the world tilts and shifts as Hank moves him, but Connor can only hold his shoulders, legs round his waist, panting desperately the words of longing he’s kept hidden for so long.  

 

The world shifts again and Connor feels soft hay at his back and the broad warmth of Hank between his splayed legs. Large hands skid up his thighs, over his waist, under his tunic, and then there’s a rush of cool air against his skin that forces a gasp out of him, and Hank throws the tunic away from them like it’s personally offended him. Connor manages a breathless smile before Hank sinks back down, tongue scorching against the skin of Connor’s neck, teeth scraping lightly and Connor feels dizzy with the pleasure of it. His back arches into the unyielding heat of Hank’s chest and a hand slips under the curve of his spine to pull him closer and then there’s  _pain_ , stinging hot and perfect, as Hank’s teeth sink into the juncture between his neck left shoulder. Stars dance across his vision as the growl ripples through Hank’s chest, through his mouth deep into Connor’s bones and he can’t stop the choked moan from ripping from his lips. Hank pulls away, pupils blown, eyes wild, glittering drops of ruby clinging to his lips before his tongue swipes them away.  

 

“Mine,” Hank growls and Connor’s blood thrums with desire.  

 

“Yours,” he breathes, open and honest. “Hank, please.” 

 

“I told you,” Hank says, ripping his doublet off to bare the furred expanse of his scarred and perfect chest. “You have the heart of a dragon twofold.” 

 

“I—“ 

 

“Your own heart. And mine.” 

 

Connor makes a sound that’s half desperation and half desire. Clawless though his form currently is, Hank’s hands rip easily through the rest of their clothes until there’s nothing between them but the night air and this glowing, infinite feeling of fierce love and desire and— 

 

“O-oh,” Connor stutters, eyes dropping between Hank’s legs. “ _Oh.”_  

 

The size alone would have been enough to steal Connor’s breath away, but coupled with the tapered tip, the rippled ridges circling the shaft and the deep, ashen silver colour, Connor is momentarily struck dumb. It’s so unlike anything he’s ever seen, never mind that his experience isn’t  _that_  extensive, so completely other and yet so  _Hank_  that the initial shock quickly ebbs into a dull ache low in his stomach. It’s too large, too heavy to stand upright, so it hangs under its own weight, the sight seizing Connor between his legs in that intoxicating stutter and clench.  

 

“You’re staring,” Hank says, expression caught between pride and trepidation. Connor swallows hard and gives himself a brief shake.  

 

“Just surprised me.” He hitches a leg over Hank’s hip. “Please. Don’t make me wait any more.” 

 

Hank growls, low and seductive, but his hands are soft against Connor’s waist, fingers barely brushing the skin of his stomach. “I don’t.” He stops, steadies himself. “You need to— Show me. Humans are… Fragile.” 

 

Connor only just manages to stop the needy whine that scrapes up his throat. He aches with emptiness and the thought of Hank pushing him down, claiming him,  _taking_  him, is almost too much to bear.  

 

“I will,” Connor says instead of the wrecked moan of  _“fuck me,”_ he wants to give. He presses a hand against Hank’s chest, pushing lightly, and the dragon falls back willingly so Connor can climb over him, legs either side of his hips. He kneels up, preening under the open hunger in Hank’s expression. It makes him feel  _powerful._  

 

It’s a simple enough incantation, Connor breathes it out as a whisper, then slips a slicked finger into his body, moan catching in his throat. Hank’s hands grip his thighs tightly and Connor feels the ache of the blood vessels breaking under his skin, delights in the bruises that will blossom there in the morning. He rolls his hips slowly, grinding down against his own hand, spreading himself open while Hank watches with parted lips.  

 

“Connor,” he chokes. “What— I want to see.” 

 

Connor smiles, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he gives a heady, teasing moan. He slips another finger in beside the first, curling them as deep as he can at this angle, hips rocking back onto them. Hank snarls, the sound ripping through clenched teeth. Connor yelps as his wrist is caught, fingers pulled from his body, and his vision tilts alarmingly as Hank pulls him round, hands tight round his arms. The breath is knocked out of him as he’s forced to his knees, face pressed into the hay as Hank shoves him down with a hand at the base of his neck until he’s bent over, hips in the air and legs spread.  

 

“H-Hank—“ 

 

“I want to see.” 

 

Connor whines, reaching a trembling hand up between his legs to slip those two fingers back into his body, skin alight with something too good to be shame. Hank growls like thunder as he watches and a Connor pants into the hay, desperate for what he can’t give himself.  

 

“You need to—“ He moans, thighs twitching. “Hank, I can’t— You need— Your fingers are th-thicker than mine.” 

 

Hank is on him in an instant, pushing Connor’s hand away and slipping a thick finger inside that hits deeper than Connor could on his own. He trembles with the pleasure of it, twisting with a cry at the dull burn of a second inching in beside the first. He feels drunk with desire, blood thrumming through his body too fast.  

 

“S-slow,” Connor gasps. “I c-can’t take too much t-too fast.” 

 

Hank’s fingers slow immediately, curling with a sedate confidence that sends Connor writhing. He clutches fistfuls of hay, panting hard as pleasure crackles up his spine and Hank’s fingers press and stroke along his insides. He’s never been stretched like this. The burn is at the same time familiar and yet so much more intense when it eases into the pleasurable ache of fullness. Connor stutters and keens as Hank eases a third finger inside him, lips wet with saliva as he pants shamelessly, forehead pressed against his forearms.  

 

“Hank,” he babbles, cock heavy between his legs. “Hank, please,  _please._ It’s enough— That’s enough.” 

 

Hank’s fingers still, paused just before withdrawing and Connor feels like he may shake apart. “Are you sure?” 

 

“Yes, yes,  _fuck me_.” The words tear out of him, a plea, a demand he doesn’t know anymore. He just wants Hank in all the ways he can have him.  

 

“On your back,” Hank says. “I want to see your face.” 

 

Connor rolls, limbs shaky and uncoordinated, and yelps as Hank yanks him closer with broad hands tight around his thighs. He grins, flushed and exhilarated. Hank stares down at him, hair falling loose from his ponytail, sweat-slicked strands framing his face. He lifts Connor’s hips into his lap, legs hooked over his forearms as he presses the tip of his cock to the loose, twitching entrance of Connor’s body.  

 

“Please,” the mage gasps, arms thrown above his head, chest heaving. Hank’s jaw clenches tight, brows pinched in concentration and restraint as his hips tilt forward and he starts the slow, steady breach of Connor’s hole.  

 

It’s too much and not enough. Connor trembles with a low cry, caught between twisting away and pushing his hips down to take more, but Hank keeps him still with hands tight at his waist, not stopping and not relenting until he’s pressed up against all of Connor inside, pushing deep and sparking fire along every one of his nerves.  

 

The sound Connor gives is too wrecked to be called a moan. It’s a heavy rush of desperation and wordless desire. His hands clench round nothing, thighs quivering and toes curling as Hank waits, for what Connor doesn’t know, can’t even think. All he knows is that if Hank doesn’t move, he’s is going to fall apart into thousands of tiny pieces, lost to the want that’s rippling through his entire body.  

 

“H-Hank—“ He chokes on the name he gasps like a prayer. “ _Hank.”_  

 

The dragon shudders and Connor’s eyes roll back into his head. “Can I—“ 

 

“ _Please!”_  

 

That’s all it takes. Hank’s hips roll slowly, drawing back, and the slow drag against Connor’s insides sends him writhing with a stuttered gasp. Hank is so very thick and hard inside him, hitting everything all at once and pushing into that place inside him that unravels him and tears a breathless cry from his throat. It’s everything, it’s perfect.  

 

But it’s not what he  _wants._  

 

“I need—“ Connor whimpers, thoughts scattering as Hank slides deeper. “I want—“ 

 

“Tell me.” Hank’s voice is rough like gravel, deeper than the oceans of Connor’s youth.  

 

“ _H-Harder.”_  

 

Hank growls and suddenly Connor’s legs are hauled up, over the dragon’s shoulders as Hank leans forward, bending him almost in half as he kneels up and shoves deep with enough force to jolt Connor’s entire body further into the hay. He cries out, back arching, and then he  _sobs_  because Hank is driving into him relentlessly, that ancient and terrible power thrumming under his skin as he uses his strength to take Connor apart. He throws his hands up to Hank’s shoulders, up his neck, into his hair, fisting tightly and wailing as Hank splits him open, cockhead dragging over that soft place deep inside him and burning Connor from the inside out.  

 

All his nerves are alight with the pleasure of it, nonsensical half-formed words spitting from slack lips, eyes rolling as Hank fucks all coherent though from his head. There’s nothing except the weight and heat of Hank’s body above him, the tight grip of hands at his waist, and the deep, throbbing pleasure clenching in his stomach.  

 

He cries a mixture of what must be Hank’s name and various curses because that’s all he can think of. Nothing else exists but pleasure and want and a love so deep it frightens him. Hank roars and the sound is rich like the most beautiful music. Connor screams his pleasure to the skies and spills across his stomach in a wave of ecstasy that leaves him boneless and satisfied. And when Hank follows and fills him – and fill him he absolutely does – it’s almost enough to wring a second climax from his pliant body.  

 

His mind swims and drifts with heavy content, but Hank does not let him rest. Connor cannot protest – doesn’t want to – when Hank lifts him up, seats him in his lap with Connor’s back pressed against his chest, and slips inside his loose and slick body once more, sending weak shivers rippling through Connor’s heavy limbs.  

 

“W-What…” Connor’s head lolls back against Hank’s shoulder, whimpering as a slow buck of hips jolts a throb of painful pleasure through his abdomen. His  _stomach_ feels full, like Hank is deep enough to feel in his abdomen. He slips a shaky hand down to the expanse of skin above his groin and  _wails_  as Hank’s cockhead nudges against his palm from  _inside him._  

 

It’s achingly slow this time and Hank litters Connor’s neck and shoulders with kisses and bites that draw deep, lilac bruises up into the skin. Connor can do little else other than be held and fucked, weak with pleasure and the bone-deep sensation of satisfaction. He feels the warm, slick trickle of Hank’s spend leaking out of him as he thrusts slow and steady, and Connor moans helplessly as he stirs and spills a second time, sagging in Hank’s arms.  

 

“I love you,” Hank vows into his skin, teeth pricking his flesh, mating as dragons do. Tears leak from Connor’s eyes and Hank kisses them away as they fall together into bliss and peace.  

 

xXx 

 

They don’t leave the barn until well after noon. Connor’s legs are weak and unsteady, pale skin littered with lilac forget-me-nots and the stark red of claiming teeth marks that mark him out now as the mate of a dragon. He trails wondering fingertips over the slight indents of them, delighting in their presence, and Hank crowds him against a support beam to kiss every inch of skin he can reach. By the time Hank is finished with him, Connor cannot walk, and has been fucked to ruin by his dragon mate four times in the past ten hours.  

 

There clothes are in a sorry state but Connor is able to enchant the scrapes into simple enough garments to preserve their modesty. Hank helps him dress and gives a low, not-quite-purr of discontent every time Connor winces.  

 

“It’s fine,” Connor tells him, hanging heavily onto a rolled hay bale. “Nothing a hot soak won’t fix. Although you may have to carry me.” 

 

Hank does without a second thought, hoisting Connor into his arms as they slip from the barn. Well past midday and not a soul in the village has stirred, the events of the festivities littered throughout the hamlet and some revellers even lay unconscious round the smoking embers of the bonfire.  

 

They slip away unseen and return to the shop just as evening draws in, tired and satisfied and wholly content. Connor slips into his bathing pool with a loud groan as the hot water soothes the aches in his body, splashing water warningly at Hank as he edges closer to slip in with him.  

 

“You stay out there,” Connor admonishes with no real heat. “You can come in if you promise to keep your hands to yourself.” 

 

“I promise,” Hank says, slipping in to the water, then promptly breaks his own vow and Connor shudders apart in his arms not ten minutes later.  

 

xXx 

 

Hank never speaks about returning to his true form. Not once in the next three months does he ever bring it up, nor does Connor, who is too afraid to break the fragile peace that surrounds them. Hank becomes a permanent fixture in the shop, helps brew elixirs, fetch herbs, serve customers. They fall into routine, a comfortable sense of domesticity that is so wonderful Connor feels high on it. Hank’s wounds fade into thick, ropey scars that still twinge Connor’s heart when he sees them, but Hank never complains, doesn’t blame him, and purrs when Connor kisses the length of them in the candlelight.  

 

Connor knows that one day Hank will leave. He’s just hoping that when the time comes he’ll be allowed to go with him.  

 

It doesn’t get that far.  

 

In a bid to quell his restless desire to wander, Hank take up the chore of travelling to the village to deliver the potions Connor brews for them, and to collect the gold they trade in return, along with what few herbs they need. It’s not too much of a stretch for Hank to head into the city, either, and he goes eagerly when Connor requests it of him, excited to see the inside of the kingdom’s capital. Connor bids him goodbye with an empty satchel, a full coin purse, and a soft kiss, slipping the amulet over Hank’s head to hide his horns.  

 

“Be safe,” Connor murmurs as Hank nuzzles his jaw.  

 

“Don’t work too hard,” Hank says with a smile as he leaves. Connor hums happily and returns to his workshop.  

 

Hank doesn’t come home.  

 

When the sky outside darkens into night, Connor is seized by grief so painful it stops his breath. He knew it was coming, but surely he was worth a goodbye, at least? 

 

And then night bleeds into morning and the grief fades, replaced by abject panic because of  _course_  Hank would never leave like that. Connor is the mate of a dragon and cannot just be cast aside.  

 

Something has happened.  

 

Connor heads for the city.  

 

Even this early the streets are full, even more so now and Connor is terrified of the reason why. He listens, follows whispers and rumours until they shift into raucous jeers and taunts, follows them to the city centre where a crowd is gathered around the gallows. People are flocking by the hundreds and the shimmer of bloodlust is almost overwhelming. Connor waits in the shadows, sick with fear.  

 

He sees Hank and the sight of him stops his heart cold. Hands bound behind his back, shirt torn and skin ripped open by the lashes of a whip. His amulet is gone and his horns arch proudly for everyone to see. Revealing him. Condemning him.  

 

“A monster in our midsts,” a crone jeers nearby. “Tore the amulet off him myself. Serves him right. The king should’ve beheaded him personally.” 

 

 _Rage_ surges through Connor, hot and vicious and a hundred curses spring to mind, push at his lips. He restrains himself just barely, magic thrumming under his skin, fuelled by righteous ire.  

 

He waits, eyes on Hank, as the executioner lowers a rope round his neck. Hank’s eyes are empty, staring ahead at nothing, sightless and resigned. Connor swallows down the frantic cry that rises in his throat and takes a deep breath, calling up every drop of his power.  

 

A wave of his arm and the crowd parts instantly, pushed and forced to the side like leaves in the wind. A myriad of eyes fall on him, prickling along his skin but he doesn’t care. He steps forward.  

 

Connor is many things. Young, knowledgeable, gifted and honest.  

 

He is also the strongest enchanter in the seven kingdoms; the mate of a dragon. And he is  _furious._  

 

He steps through the parted crowd, footsteps slow and measured. Hank’s eyes find him and the shock and awe there is enough to bring the life back to his eyes. Connor feels a rush of affection so strong it almost buckled his knees. Of course Hank wouldn’t fight. He never wanted to harm anyone. That’s not who he is.  

 

But Connor.  

 

Connor is ready to  _kill_  for his dragon.  

 

He ascends the seven steps to the gallows platform, paralyses the guards that charge him, stands face to face with Hank and touches the tip of a single finger to the rope round his neck. His bonds burn away to nothing, ashes scattering in the light breeze.  

 

“Go,” Connor murmurs softly.  

 

Hank huffs a laugh out on a breath. “Not a chance.”  

 

And Hank hears it before Connor does, stiffens and growls, eyes narrowing. The clink of armour edged with scales, the thrum of Connor’s own magic in the air.  

 

Connor turns.  

 

And meets the eyes of the king.  

 

“Step away, mage,” drawls the cruel monarch, clad head to toe in the armour that Connor crafted himself. “You can have his scales when he’s dead.” 

 

Connor  _burns._ Flames flicker up his forearms and he steps forward, full of dark intent.  

 

A warm hand on his shoulder stops him. Hank shakes his head, eyes sad and soft.  

 

“Don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t ruin your life here for me.” 

 

The flames flicker out and dissipate. Connor is left feeling raw and unsteady. Everything in him is so prepared to fight. But in the face of Hank’s aged wisdom, he can’t. He won’t do it, he won’t become a killer, Hank won’t let him. Not even for his own safety.  

 

But Connor has a wrong to right. One hand raised, he curls his fingers into a fist, eyes back on the king.  

 

He doesn’t say a word as he spreads his fingers again and the armour crumbles to dust scale by scale.  

 

It happens very quickly after that. Soldiers swarm the city center, swords drawn and crossbows knocked. Connor raised his hands, wards flaring to life, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He tenses, ready to fight, and stumbles as the gallows platform quakes beneath him.  

 

Silver claws crash down onto the wooden planks underfoot and a fearsome roar rends the air. Connor looks up at Hank’s mighty maw spread wide as a torrent of flame swirls towards the sky, sending peasants and guards alike scrambling away in fear. The king is blocked by his entourage, hurriedly shielded from the beast that now fills the square, wings spread wide and tail thrashing.  

 

It’s easy for Connor to climb up a bent foreleg, hauling himself up into the notch between the spines on Hank’s neck and back. He settles there and with another deafening roar, Hank brings his wings down with a heavy sweep and launches them into the air. They climb until the city is far below them and the clouds are their only floor.  

 

“Where to?” Hank’s thunderous voice carries over the wind as he spreads his wings and crests into a slow glide, buoyed by the currents of the air.  

 

“Anywhere,” Connor says, arms spread so the wind can catch at his fingers. “Everywhere.” 

 

 

 


End file.
